


Armor Understands Armor

by Kogiopsis



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, SANDERSON Brandon - Works, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kogiopsis/pseuds/Kogiopsis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kaladin talks Renarin through a panic attack.<br/>Set during Words of Radiance, but written prior to the book's release, so spoiler-free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armor Understands Armor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwampSpirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwampSpirit/gifts).



Of the three Kholins Kaladin and the bridgemen had been assigned to protect, Renarin was the one Kaladin worried about the most.  Dalinar was the most obvious target, and Adolin the most hotheaded, but Renarin… Renarin had a strange sort of imprudent courage which, mixed with his resolute determination to prove himself, made him a serious risk to himself.  Dalinar had related the story of his riding recklessly into the middle of a greatshell hunt, and Kaladin had seen the same sort of behavior several times since - never in times of such immediate danger, thank the Heralds, but enough to make him genuinely worried for the young prince’s safety.

There was something else to it, too.  Whenever Renarin practiced wearing and using his Shardplate, both his brother and his father were present - one to instruct, one to demonstrate.  (And, if necessary, to provide Plate-enhanced emergency assistance; though no one ever talked about that.)  It was a prudent arrangement, but not without side effects.  Adolin and Dalinar were the two most powerful figures in Renarin’s life, the two people he seemed to be trying to live up to, and they were his primary audience as he made his first fumbling attempts at using Plate.  It was no surprise, then, that the boy drove himself hard on every outing despite his delicate health.

After one such training session - conducted a plateau away from the Kholin warcamp, as Dalinar deemed privacy more important than a marginal increase in personal risk - Kaladin found himself watching Renarin closely.  He seemed more subdued than usual, almost completely silent, his armored head tilted downwards.  Dalinar had given him exercises today that focused on dexterity, but instead of improving Renarin had begun to fumble more and more as time passed, until his father finally called a halt.  They walked back to the warcamp over one of the fixed bridges: one unarmored Highprince, his two armored sons, Kaladin, and a dozen members of Bridge Four.

Dalinar was almost immediately accosted by a lighteyed officer with camp business; as he was led away, four of the bridgemen - he still thought of them that way, even though it’d been weeks since they’d laid hands on a bridge - went with him.  At a small gesture and a nod from Kaladin, Syl accompanied them; she’d be able to fetch him quickly if he was needed.  The remaining eight distributed themselves more or less evenly around Adolin and Renarin, scrutinizing the people who passed. 

Adolin and his four personal guards split off before they reached the center of the warcamp.  Kaladin chose to stay with Renarin, who seemed to be walking more quickly as they approached the stone building where the Kholin family lived.  One of the bridgemen opened the door for him, and another entered the hallway first, as was normal.  Usually Renarin was the soul of quiet politeness, and would say a quiet thank-you to each of them as he passed; today he brushed by them hurriedly, without a word.

Kaladin frowned.  This was most unlike the young lighteyes.  With a few quick, muttered orders he directed his men to take up guard positions some distance down the hall from Renarin’s private chambers, out of hearing range.  He alone followed the boy into his rooms.

One of the agreements Kaladin had made with Dalinar when he first arrived in the Kholin warcamp was that all three of his protectees would never be truly alone unless they were using the latrine, and that even then several members of Bridge Four would be waiting outside.  That was as much for Kaladin’s own protection as for theirs: while Dalinar had elevated him and his men far above any other darkeyes in the Alethi army, they could lose that privilege and freedom all too easily if something happened to their patrons.  Some days, particularly when Adolin went out to socialize with other young nobles, knowing that was the only thing that kept Kaladin dedicated to his task.

Renarin, though he didn’t know the specific motivations behind it, was aware of and had agreed to the requirement.  Still, when Kaladin closed the door to the hall, the boy startled like grass before a chull.

He’d already removed his helm and, by appearances, tossed it violently away; it lay in a corner of the room, as far as possible from the bed where Renarin sat.  His blonde-streaked hair was visibly damp with sweat, and his fingers were scrabbling at the fastenings of his sabatons with little success.

Kaladin was more than a little taken aback by the sight.  Renarin was generally calm and composed to the point of being almost statue-like.  He rarely showed any emotion, let alone something like this, which verged on panic.  The closest thing Kaladin had seen to it before was the wide-eyed, nervous shock some young spearmen went into in battle - but there was no clash of weapons here, no screams of the injured, no smell of sweat and blood.  Still, he responded as he would have to a spearman in his squad: approaching slowly, hands open and out before him, voice measured.

"Would you like help, Brightlord?"

Renarin shook his head sharply in an emphatic ‘no’, then redoubled his efforts on the sabaton’s fastenings.  His nervous energy seemed to be making it hard for him to get the armor off, as his hands were shaking on the buckles, made worse by the properties of the Plate itself.  Even the smallest muscle movements were exaggerated by its augmentation.  Kaladin stood close to the door, unsure of what to do.  He didn’t know the young prince well enough to guess what might help, and couldn’t risk offending a lighteyes by stepping in unasked.  It was obvious, though, that Renarin needed to get his Shardplate off faster than he could manage right now.  Every time he moved it clinked, and he twitched violently in reaction.

"Renarin," Kaladin said, tentatively.  This time he didn’t move closer.  "Is there anything I can do?"

Renarin finally managed to get the buckles on one sabaton undone and yanked it off of his foot, tossing it into the same corner where his helm already sat.  Not looking up, already working on the next set of buckles, he responded.

"Talk…to me."  Never one to speak hurriedly, his speech was even slower now, and stilted as if it took great effort to get the words out.  Still, it put Kaladin on familiar ground.  He’d done this for injured men in his squad, years ago; telling stories distracted them from the ministrations of the surgeons and their own fear.  Turning, he leaned against the wall - so that he was looking not at Renarin, but at the stone wall across the room - and began to speak.

"I don’t know if you know Rock - he’s a big Horneater, so he’s hard to miss, but he’s not assigned to guard duty - but he told us this Unkalaki story the other evening over dinner…"

He recounted the tale to the best of his ability - doubtless missing some crucial details, but well enough that it made sense, at least.  When he had finished, Kaladin fell silent.  The room seemed quieter, though he could still hear the sounds of small movements in Shardplate.  He glanced over at Renarin, and was pleased to note the absence of his second sabaton, and most of his leg plates.  While he was still fumbling, the boy didn’t seem nearly as twitchy as he had before, and Kaladin couldn’t recall having heard the sharp clang of Shardplate striking a wall for some time.  Something about telling that story, then, seemed to have helped.  Kaladin licked his lips, then drew in a deep breath and started into another one.  It was a good thing that Bridge Four liked to tell stories.

After two more retellings, Kaladin looked over to see Shardplate scattered about the floor, and none of it on the young lighteyes.  Renarin was still seated on the edge of his bed, hands in his lap and head bowed.  There was something defeated about the slump of his shoulders.  Kaladin approached slowly, and sat down as quietly as he could with his back to the wall, near Renarin but not too close.

"Do you need to talk?" he asked.

There was a long moment of silence.  Kaladin could see Renarin’s hands twisting around each other, tangling and then untangling like rope, always tense, always moving.

"I’m… not very good at this," Renarin said at last, speaking to his hands.  "I thought… I thought that Plate would make it easier, and sometimes it does but -" he paused, fingers knitted together and clenched tight enough to make his knuckles go white.  "Sometimes it’s just… too much.  It’s hot and close and it feels so much different than anything else -"

His voice hitched and he fell silent again, his hands moving once more.  Kaladin looked away, not wanting to stare, and found his gaze falling on one of Renarin’s discarded sabatons.  It was still slate grey, a remnant of Dalinar’s ownership, but unlike conventional armor it didn’t show its age, or the weight of tradition and expectation it no doubt carried.

"It clinks when I walk," Renarin said, quiet and hoarse.  "Sometimes it’s not a problem but sometimes I- I- I just can’t stand it, the sound or the feeling of wearing it or - anything!  It’s too much!  And Father and Adolin, they want me to succeed and I try but I can’t even think properly; all I want is to get it off and to not hear and feel so much all the time."  He drew in a deep shuddering breath, and Kaladin looked back to see that his hands had stilled, and he was resting his head in them now.

That was, Kaladin thought, the most he’d ever heard from the princeling at once, and if Renarin hadn’t been as visibly upset as he was he might have commented on it.  In this situation, though, it didn’t seem appropriate.  What Renarin needed now was sympathy and support.  Kaladin considered his response carefully, looking for a middle ground between false sympathy and sharing too much of his own past.

"Sometimes… the world is very overwhelming," he said.  "And it becomes a battle just to - to continue to exist."  Renarin didn’t seem inclined to throw himself into the Honor Chasm, but there was an element of desperation in his voice that Kaladin recognized.

For the first time since they’d reached the building, Renarin lifted his head and met Kaladin’s eyes.  He looked… strained.  Slowly, Kaladin leaned forward and reached out one hand.  He’d meant to rest it comfortingly on Renarin’s knee - the closest part he could reach - but instead the young lighteyes grabbed onto it in a quick motion.  Kaladin found himself halfway between sitting and kneeling, held in place by Renarin’s fingers curled around his wrist.  He scooted forward, a movement completely lacking grace but that at least allowed him to settle back to sitting more comfortably on his heels.

After a moment Renarin let go of his hand and Kaladin let it fall back down into his lap, but didn’t move away again.

"Sorry," Renarin said.  "I just - most people don’t understand."  His lips twisted upwards in a mirthless smile.  "I’m an Alethi prince; I’m supposed to love battle, but just walking in Shardplate reduces me to -" he made a jerky, abrupt gesture towards the scattered armor "- someone who can’t even summon the wit to care for his equipment properly, let alone fight."

It went against Kaladin’s entire being to pity a lighteyes for being a lighteyes.  Renarin, after all, had privileges equal to or outstripping the pressures he faced.  He was treated with deference, had his every need catered to - or did he?  Watching him now, still shaky and restless, Kaladin wondered how much Renarin hid from the people who were supposed to support and care for him, lest they think him unworthy of his position.  He’d seen his father deal with patients like this - people who refused to admit their injury or illness out of pride or fear.  There was something about Renarin expressing the same sentiment that made him… less lighteyes, and Kaladin found himself empathizing despite his better judgment.

"I feel like that sometimes, with Bridge Four.  They didn’t always trust me - in fact at one point I think they sort of hated me - and I had to work hard to earn that trust.  And now that I have it, I’m afraid all the time that I’ll lose it, that I won’t live up to their expectations and they’ll just - turn away from me."  They’d lost so many of their number and every time, every death triggered that fear in him, that this would be the failure that drove the bridgemen away from him.  "Sometimes I feel like it would be easier if I’d never tried and had just let myself be killed by a Parshendi arrow like everyone else in those cursed crews."

He realized as he spoke that he’d never talked about this with anyone.  Dalinar would probably understand - he knew the weight of command and trust - but Kaladin was already living on his good graces, and he couldn’t do anything with even a small chance of damaging their fragile balance.  The bridgemen, of course, were out of the question.  Syl knew, on whatever level she was capable of understanding, but they’d never talked about it in depth.  Saying the words aloud felt like draining pus from a wound; something in him deflated a little, and tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying dissipated ever so slightly.

"What I try to remember, when I think like that, is that in the end I managed to keep them alive long enough to get away from bridge runs.  That even though I felt like what I was doing was hopeless, it wasn’t in the end."  He looked straight up at Renarin, who met his gaze briefly and then broke eye contact.  "It’s hard to know if your effort is worth anything, but I think… I think in general it is.  Trying is valuable."

Tien had always known what to say or do to make Kaladin feel less useless.  Kaladin didn’t have that… skill, understanding, gift, whatever it had been, but he found himself trying to think of what Tien would have said.  It wasn’t easy; brusqueness – even brusque comfort – came more naturally to Kaladin.  Still, something seemed to be working; Renarin’s posture was much less stiff than it had been, and his hands had been almost still for most of the time Kaladin had been speaking.

The silence was broken by a knock at the door, and much to his embarrassment Kaladin twitched in reaction to the noise.  He hadn’t realized how focused he had been on Renarin.  It’d dulled his awareness and his reaction time.

Still, by the time Renarin called ‘enter’ and Torfin opened the door, Kaladin was standing at attention next to the highprince and both at least appeared composed.

"Apologies, Brightlord," Torfin said, bobbing his head.  "Brightness Navani just arrived, and she requested that you be informed immediately."

"Thank you."  Renarin’s voice was even and controlled again.  "Tell her that I will meet her in the main hall shortly."

As the door swung closed, Kaladin looked down at the still-seated lighteyes.   He considered asking the questions that were on his mind, but only briefly; his actions had already pushed the bounds of social propriety, and it would be intolerably rude to ask a superior in rank if he was sure he was capable of conversing with a family member.  And… watching Renarin slowly stand and run his hands through his hair to straighten it, Kaladin realized that the question would also be unfounded.  Already, the raw emotion and insecurities that he had laid bare seemed tucked away again, beneath a pretense of quiet stability that was more armor to Renarin even than Shardplate.

As they walked briskly down the hall, Kaladin wondered if it was also more stifling.


End file.
